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My father, Joseph Labi, 88, always loved the sea. As a child in Benghazi, Libya, he frequented the seaport and watched boats sail in and out of the Italian, Fascist-controlled harbor.

Joseph Labi today

Many years later, in Israel, I recall my father taking me to the sea in Bat-Yam, our hometown outside Tel-Aviv. We waded into the blue water until our toes could no longer touch the sand below. Then we floated and awaited for the waves to roll in from the deep. We body-surfed the waves, our arms swinging like windmills to catch the cresting wave, carried to shore, and back again, and back again.

Joseph and wife Yvonne today

It is fitting, then, that last week the Holocaust Memorial documentarian chose to film my father with the sea behind him as a backdrop. I look at my father and I can’t believe his age, nor mine — time did fly.

Joseph Labi at 15 in Italian village

It was not until 1968, shortly after my Bar Mitzvah that I fully learned of my father’s horrific experience at the hands of the Nazis. I was in the Israeli-equivalent of the Boy Scouts and I was asked to volunteer my father to speak of his ordeal in front of the “troops.” It was a hot summer evening. My father, dressed fashionably as he always did, fanned his face with a folded handkerchief. I sat speechless long after he’d finished talking. The images didn’t add up. How was this stong, muscular, handsome man who stood before me was tortured to near nothingness by the Nazi machine?

Two years before, in 1966, and some twenty years after the end of WWII, my father, mother, sister and I visited a remote village in the Italian mountain range near Reggio Emilia. “This is where I spent my childhood as an orphan,” he said. Here in the village, Castelnovo Ne Monti, my father was interned by the Fascists and Nazis for two years. Walking with him then in the picturesque cobblestone streets shrouded by mountain mist, I couldn’t imagine what he’d endured as a 15 year-old boy before the Nazis put him on a train to Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in Germany.

Joseph with Isael’s prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu

That same night he and I sat at the Italian village outdoor cafe and watched on a grainy black-and-white TV the 1966 soccer World Cup final game between England and Germany. While the Italian crowd rooted for their Germans war-allies, my father and I jumped for joy when England won the game and took the cup. That night my father couldn’t be happier, a small revenge of sorts.

Years passed. He sometimes spoke of his experience at Bergen-Belsen, of his hunger, of his loneliness, of his humiliation, and his desire to live. After liberation by the Americans, alone, he wandered the bombed-out cities

Joseph, at far left, honored by Special Combat Forces

of Europe, finally returning to his port city of Benghazi, and the sea. But it was no longer his home. Almost everyone he’d known had scattered. He made it to Egypt with a childhood buddy, and from there, dressed as a British Jewish Brigade soldier he was smuggled into British-controlled Palestine. For two years at a kibbutz he learned to tend to crops, milk the cows; learned to shoot a rifle, learned to read and write Hebrew before being drafted as a soldier in Israel’s War of Independence.

Joseph honored by his family at Holocaust Memorial Stage

The rest is history. The number of Holocaust survivors is diminishing worldwide. Soon there will be no one left to give first-hand testimony. This week my father was honored as one of six survivors to light the torch at the Holocaust Memorial Services in Jerusalem. He met with Israel’s prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu, finally awarded a stage on which to tell his story. He owes thanks to his son-in-law Israel who’d campaigned for him for years, and to his grandson Daniel. My younger daughters, Maya and Romy, 17, honored their grandfather by heading an Israeli delegation to Bergen-Belsen. There they found his name recorded in the Nazi archives, including the date the train arrived at the camp.

Playing with the latest addition, his great-granddaughter

My older daughters in America, Michelle and Vanessa, are proud of him, sharing his story with many of their friends of their generation.

The ceremony at Yad Va’Shem is over. The cameras stopped. The phone calls to my father from reporters and news crews stopped. But my father hasn’t. He will soon put on his soft walking shoes and head to the sea. There he will stand on the cliff and look into the water, watch the waves roll in. An old man and his sea.

Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

He was sitting on a large cooler under an umbrella selling home-brewed beer. It was a hot day and within hours he’d sold all his “Tavor Brewery” bottles with their distinctive mustard-yellow and ketchup-red beer caps. I was intrigued, bought a six-pack, tasted them at home, was taken by the aroma and flavors, and called him to come see his boutique “brewery” up close and personal.

The raw ingredients: wheat and malt

Tal lives in the next village over, Shadmot Devora, named after the wife of famous Baron Rothschild. It’s a sleepier village than ours, still retains its old world charm. I pull in front of a basalt, volcanic-rock covered house.

Ground mix of malt and wheat

He steps out to greet me and we walk in. Tal’s in his forties, married with two young children. I did not know what to expect once he opened his front door.

Brewing pots on the balcony

Ornate furniture, sofas, 19th century English dining tables, china plates take up the entire living room. “My wife Sigal is an art dealer,” he explains. “She imports one-of-a-kind pieces in ship containers, displays them at home and online.” We sidestep the delicate furniture pieces and climb up the stairs to his business. In one of the bedrooms while his kids play soccer on their Playstation, Tal shows me the 25kg sacks of wheat and sacks of malt imported from the UK and other European countries. “I struck a deal with local Galilee farmers to get their wheat this year,” he tells me.

Tal Bitton showing me around the house

He then goes on to explain about the proper ratio between them (70/30). He first grinds the wheat and malt, places all in a bath at 70 degrees centigrade until a mash develops. He then drains the stuff. To the liquid brew he adds hops as a preservative and as bitterness agent. All comes to a boil. Toward the end he adds his own “secret” spices, essentially coriander, black pepper and orange peels. Once it cools off with reverse osmosis hoses Tal lets the brew ferment for two weeks at 17 degrees (uses A/C in summer or heater in winter), constantly monitoring the fermentation and the alcohol content at around 5.2%. This is a small operation soon to be bigger, so at this stage family members all lend a hand. The bottles are washed and sterilized, grape sugar is added at the end to add effervescence and fizz, and to flatten the last of the fermentation. The beer is poured into bottles, the caps are sealed one by one. “Tavor Brewery” is open for business.

“How did you start out?” I ask.

Bottling the liquid gold one by one

Tal tells me he’s a casualty of the boom/bust hi-tech in Israel. As a telecom executive he worked in Germany, then in Belgium. After office hours he, the employees and the business partners frequented the local pubs. He became hooked. Back in Israel, he still does consulting work but his passion is evident in the wonderful aroma and flavors of his beer. Each bottle sells for $2.60 (about $15 for a six-pack) – a reasonable price by Israel’s high-priced beer market. He now sells out of his brew-at-home bottles days after they’re available.

He wants to expand but must get permits from the Ministry of Health, get the green light from Ministry of Religious Affairs (has to be kosher), and is required to work out of a warehouse, not his spare bedroom and balcony. It’s a tall order, but I suspect he will succeed.

wheat at the foot of Mt. Tavor

He ordered new “upgraded” labels for his bottles, and is considering getting the word out with a multi-level marketing model.

The beer is unfiltered, much like Tal – what you see is what you get. On a warm spring day, as an accompaniment to a good meal, there’s nothing like a homegrown beer from Galilee.

What a nice kick to the head.

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Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

Last week a group of Israelis toured the streets and promenades of Istanbul. It was part of a culinary trip to explore the flavors of the wonderful Turkish cuisine.

Israeli tourists in Istanbul before the terrorists’ attack

While they dined at a restaurant, an ISIS (Daesh) suicide-bomber detonated his explosives belt killing three and wounding scores more. The festive outing had turned into a disaster. Within hours Israel sent its own doctors and transport airplanes to bring everyone home. This is one more story of Islamist terrorism against Jews. What’s absurd is that one of the killed, Avi Goldman, was a tour guide in Jerusalem. He survived the daily attacks of Arabs against Jews in his own city, yet had to travel to Turkey to meet his death.

Forrest Gump had it all wrong. Life is not like a box of chocolate.

Islamist suicide-bombers in Brussels

It used to be that if you kept out of trouble, trouble would not find you. Islamists terrorists changed all that after 9/11. We’re sitting ducks. Anywhere we go, San Bernardino in California, Paris, Istanbul, Tel-Aviv, we can have our heads blown off or be stabbed to death. There are no Swedes, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Italians pulling anchor from their homelands and going on a killing spree in Afghanistan, Iraq, or Syria. It’s an Islamist thing. Even those Muslims who’d lived in Europe for two or three generations produce sleeper-cell terrorists. It’s assimilation gone wild. I feel sorry for all the law-abiding peaceful Muslims who just want to get by in life, find a decent job, raise a decent family, build a decent home. Yet many indecent, violent, hell-bent Islamist fundamentalists are ruining it for their own people and their own religion. But you can’t talk sense into them. They’re sick in the head.

Victims of the suicide-bombing in Brussels

What’s most terrifying is that these Islamists terrorists can strike at any moment, anywhere, in capital cities and sleepy villages. Ten days ago my twin teenage daughters flew to Bergen-Belsen, Germany as part of a worldwide delegation to explore and learn about the Nazi atrocities in the concentration camp (more on the subject on a future post). They flew from Israel to Frankfurt, and from there to Hanover, and from there to Bergen-Belsen.

Then the ISIS terrorists struck Brussels, Belgium. Thirty-four innocent people were killed at the airport and subway. My wife and I panicked. That same week they were to return to Israel with a connecting flight through…Brussels. While in Germany the local media had learned of my daughters’ involvement in the Bergen-Belsen project. They wanted to interview them for TV and radio and take their account of their Germany visit. The reporters asked their Israeli adult escort for permission to interview. Their woman escort and former teacher called Jerusalem for instructions. Jerusalem called back. “Do not let them talk to anyone!” Why expose them to would-be attackers, they said. Toward the end, the reporters and Israeli security reached a compromise. My daughters spoke of their experiences in Germany and the story could be told only after they’d left the country.

My daughters in Bergen-Belsen this week

They traveled to Germany to learn of the horrors committed in the camp more than 70 years ago, only to learn that the horrors continue to haunt us today. Luckily they took a flight back through Munich instead, and arrived safely early this morning.

The families from the Istanbul attack are grieving. Brussels, known for its Belgian chocolate, is now known for dynamite and bombs.

Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

No, I’m not Israel’s tourism minister, but now that spring is just around the hill, I feel compelled to

Fields behind our house

Max: “I am ready to go!”

share some of the physical beauty of Galilee. Granted, there are days when the summer heat is oppressive, when winter is wet and cold, when dust storms roll in from the desert, yet I can’t deny that the scent and color of spring makes it almost all worthwhile. The morning treks just behind our house are glorious. Olive trees dot the landscape. The almond trees just completed their pinkish bloom, the farmers are pruning the grapevines, the wheat is bending in the wind, the soil is dark brown-red-black and the sky above is pregnant with fat clouds. Our dog Max sniffs the change in seasons; he’s the first out the door to run in the fields and the last to return. Judging by his wagging tail, I trust he’s happy to be in the outdoors, to chase after imaginary prey, and to disappear behind tall stalks of wheat and barley.

Wild mustard plants against the hill

olive trees in distance

Out for a walk in the fields

My walking partners

Hanging out in the garden

Purple thorn in full bloom

The Jewish holiday Passover is late this year, arriving at the end of April. This does not keep us from getting a head start in cleaning, arranging, rearranging, fixing, clearing, throwing, dusting, spraying, polishing, and crashing for a much deserved rest. Cooking by the pot-loads will soon begin in the kitchen. Days are longer, the sweaters and coats make their way back into closets. The space-heaters in the house are unplugged. The natural stone pathways and entryway outside our home are given a good scrub-down and wash with a power hose. The waterproof covers over lawn furniture are removed. Now the outdoor armchairs and sofas inhale deeply, releasing a long-held winter breath. Sparrows, hummingbirds, robins come in for a landing on the branches and to suckle from fragrant flowers. Bees buzz. Kids on bikes buzz past our front gate. Spring is here, almost. Next time you’re in Israel, include Galilee in your itinerary.

Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

A few months ago my twin daughters got their first summons for active military duty. At 08:00 they appeared in a large building with dozens of other would-be girl soldiers where they took a physical and a written aptitude test. The ordeal lasted for a better part of the day; interviewers stepped in and out of the office, asked questions and jotted down notes in their “military file.” In the near future they will be ordered to appear again, this time to help determine what’s the best post for them and what’s best for the State of Israel. My daughters came home very excited, not sure how they performed and whether they will be stationed close to home or on a base far away for the mandatory 24 month enlistment. I too was excited for them. They will acquire skills like no one’s business, they will learn how to shoot a rifle, engage in self-defense drills, trek over desert terrain, sleep outdoors, serve with men soldiers and establish friendships and experiences for a lifetime. And then, two weeks ago, this idyllic and patriotic notion shattered when 19 year-old woman soldier Hadar Cohen was killed by an armed Arab terrorist. The latest round of violence that’s lasted 4 months, and what many define as the third Intifada, has claimed the lives of 35 Jewish-Israelis. The attacks are random which makes them even more terrifying. The terrorists are young, too young, 80% are under age 25. They come from the West Bank and East Jerusalem, and for many their attack is their first encounter with a Jew. And they keep coming after us. They’re being incited by their leadership but that would be only half the truth. Many are encouraged through social media to be the next shahid, a Muslim martyr, to avenge the honor of their families, to make it to Heaven, to escape the desperation and hell they’re in now, to score points with their fellow-friends, to brag of bravery, to instill pain and horror in Jews, to save their Palestine from infidels, to act out domestic violence at their village, for kicks, for fun, and for whatever the f*** the reason, they keep coming and coming, with stones, with knives, with guns.

What makes me mad is that Israel’s leadership, civil and military, think that if they apply more pressure, put more Arab towns under siege, close off roads, erect fences and dig ditches, install concrete barricades, stretch concertina wire in fields, uproot olive groves, arrest people in the dead of night, blow up the homes of terrorists, refuse to return the bodies of the dead terrorists, threaten the Arabs with more measures– that all this will somehow stop terrorism. It will not.

What’s more maddening is that most of the Israeli public, undoubtedly terrorized, is actually buying into its leadership’s bullshit. Family members grieve and wail at open, fresh graves to bury the Jewish victims. The surviving spouse, brother, sister, mother, father speak of their lost ones. The next day newspapers splash the photos of the killed with some touching biography. TV reporters interview the grieving family and all is shown on prime-time night after night after night. The first time, four months ago, I was glued to the screen, shocked. Four months later, I no longer ache. I’m just mad. Mad at the ineptitude of Israel’s military for not saving Hadar Cohen. She recently enlisted, was fresh out of boot camp and was stationed at a border-crossing as a patrol soldier. Her experience was next to none. An Arab opened fire and killed her. The military made excuses, said she was partnered with an experienced officer. Try explaining this to her parents.

There is little chance this round of violence will end soon. Israel is doing the same thing for almost 50 years, since the Six-Day War in 1967, when it annexed the West Bank. Over the past 50 years Israel has taken over large sections of the West Bank, built towns, cities and settlements that today number 1/2 million Jews. Right and Left wing governments over the past decades have entrenched the settlements and their near-fanatic residents that it would take divine intervention to pull them out. Would He? Settlers will never leave willingly their “God-promised” land. No Israeli government, Left or Right, has the balls to undo what was done. Billions are poured into the settlements at the expense of crumbling towns and the neglect of the poor in “proper” Israel. I see it daily in Galilee. We’re at a point of no-return. Israel continues internationally and domestically to make the impression that our survival is in question. Bull. Israel is the strongest military power in the Middle East and beyond. We have enough tanks, planes and submarines to bury any Arab nation. We’re a net exporter of military hardware and software to rival the Americans, English, French and Russians. Yet we continue to act like victims. I don’t care much for the Arabs. Like or not, they’re here to stay. A century ago we should have taken the offer to build a Jewish homeland in Argentina (nothing like a juicy steak from the Pampas), or in Uganda (At least take a train to vacation on the Indian ocean), but luck would have it that we’re stuck and surrounded by a bunch of Arabs. I did not count the wars–10?–with the Arabs since 1948. And we’re still fighting. More and more men, women, children are killed daily on both sides. I can’t speak for the Arabs. Nor can I speak for the Israeli government, but every generation or two there rises a wo(man) who might lead us out of this nightmare. I think we’re long overdue. Hadar Cohen, 19, you’re dearly missed–you’re but two years older than my daughters. It’s not suppose to be so.

I love you, Hadar.

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Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

The Arabs put the final touches of whitewash paint on the walls of their beloved city, Benghazi. Trash was removed from the streets. Boardwalk cafes and shops glimmered under the Mediterranean sun of this North African nation of Libya. Flags blew in the breeze.

Benito Mussolini in Benghazi

Schools let out their children and had them stand in a single file from the airport to the town center.

Shopkeepers wiped clean their storefront windows in anticipation. The year is 1937, and it’s not every day that IL DUCE (The Leader) comes from Italy to witness his Fascist empire. Upon landing, Benito Mussolini was escorted with fanfare through the streets of Benghazi. My grandfather, Joseph Duani, much like other Jews in Benghazi, welcomed the dictator. Wasn’t Italy and its Roman past the cradle of civilization? Wasn’t Italy the nation that fostered music, art and commerce with flair? Joseph looked up to the Italians; they represented all that was noble and enlightened, or so he believed then.

He and his fellow business friends took pride in learning Italian, in sending their children years later to Italian-run schools in Benghazi. Joseph wore the latest Italian suits and neckties and ordered Italian-made shoes using his Italian-made Olivetti typewriter. Joseph Duani in his youth, the ultimate bad boy, tooled around town with his Italian-made 1935 Benelli motorcycle. He had learned to correspond with Italian merchants in Napoli and Rome, to import fabrics and shoes for his Benghazi shop near the seaport. Learning of Mussolini’s state visit, he put on his best suit, held his firstborn daughter Yvonne (my mother) in his arms, and rushed to the growing-by-the-minute procession to greet The Leader.

Mussolini entered Benghazi in a motorcade to the cheers of the crowds. Arabs rode their camels. Young men displayed their riding

Benelli Italian-made motorcycle my grandfather owned

skills on horseback. And like any politician, Mussolini mixed with the crowd, nodded his approval, waved, then stopped in front of my grandfather. My mother, two months old, squirmed in her father’s arms.

Benito Mussolini stood on his toes–he was short and my grandfather was tall–and kissed my mother on the cheek. The kiss is something my grandfather would recall years later. It did not do him or his Jewish friends any favors. In time the Fascists rolled into town and burned all their shops to the ground. Collaborating with the Nazis, they sent 2500 Jews into labor camps in the Libyan desert, 600 died. Years later Mussolini met his violent end, lynched by an angry Italian mob at the end of WWII.

My mother Yvonne Labi, today, near 80

As a child growing up, my father and mother spoke Italian to keep things from me. I owe Mussolini

nothing other than introducing my family to all-things-beautiful that in later years would be termed La Dolce Vita: a sense of style, and a passion for living. My mother celebrates her birthday this week, almost 80. What the heck, Mom, I’ll kiss you on the cheek. The other cheek.

Happy Birthday!

Below is a rare film footage of Benito Mussolini’s visit to Libya in 1937.

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Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

More than three decades of living in America does its thing. I thought of explaining “thing” but decided to better illustrate with Show & Tell. It’s now past my 4th year in Israel. America, its ideals, its way of life, its oddities and mannerism, still sticks to my ribs. I still answer the phone with “Hello” rather than “HALLO!” This is a dead give away that I did not completely assimilate with the locals. The stranger on the line will either admire the quaintness of my pronunciation or seize to exploit the “foreigner.” But I’m not totally defenseless. I’ve acquired the thick skin of the “Sabra,” a thorny cactus fruit, tough on the outside and tender and sweet on the inside — a nickname assigned to the Israeli-born.

After 4 years I find myself speaking LOUDER to be heard, or be drowned by louder voices; I find that I give less personal space while waiting in line at the bank, at the clinic, at the university. Most Israelis don’t seem to mind, and they return the favor in kind. I give advice when none is asked. (Okay, then, don’t take my advice). I no longer cringe when invited guests poke their utensils in dishes for a double-triple-quadruple dip rather than use the serving spoons. It’s all a family “thing.” And now during winter, it’s common to see people carry rolls of toilet paper, cut a few squares and blow their noses, set the roll back on the table as if it’s the most beautiful adornment, and continue chatting away. I no longer reach for the scented menthol Kleenex. A sandpaper toilet roll is okay by me.

I’m just as tough as the next Israeli.

Place: University parking lot. Time: 6 at night (18:00 in Israeli military clock).

My damaged baby

Conditions: Dark, cold. I’m seated inside my American-made, sporty-looking, limited-edition Toyota Camry. I bend over my dashboard to charge my cellphone. BANG! I hear a grinding noise. I raise my head. A car is trying to unlock itself from my front bumper. I honk. (When in doubt in Israel, just HONK!). I leap out of my car and see a very pregnant woman step out of her car. She apologizes. I look at her car. It’s a very old, banged up on all four sides. I’m thinking she had lots of practice. A security guard rushes to the “crime scene” and confirms her “guilt.” I’m upset but I don’t want to upset her for it seems her baby had dropped six inches while we’re talking. We exchange information and I drive off with my bashed bumper. During the drive I regret having bought an American “imported” car. I wanted to act American in a land that is not America. The drawbacks are many: 1. Warranty. No Toyota dealership in Israel would cover me during the typical three or four years in case something major broke down.

You’re on your own, Mr. Americano. 2. Exotic Model. Parts are not available at the warehouse but have to be imported. Ouch! 3. Insurance companies don’t like privately imported cars. Therefore, I pay higher premiums. 4. Resale value will suffer, I’m told, because it was imported instead of through a dealership. 5. Radio frequency in America is different from the one in Israel. Changing over is tedious and expensive. So I continue to fidget with the dial and land on hissing, half-tuned stations. But I did find an English music-playing station that’s reasonable – from Jordan! May Allah Akbar be with me.

The next day I spend at the body shop. The mechanic, Arab, has wonderful hands, runs his fingers over the wounded car. After he copies my car registration he makes a few calls and returns with the verdict: To replace the dented bumper (“You see it will come from America…) $1700. The cracked headlight: $700. (“Did I tell you, this too will come from America?”). I point to the relatively little damage and wish to protest. He reads my mind. “It’s American,” he says.

Mr. Tough Guy

I drive home trying to pump myself for the upcoming confrontations. I’ll be tough with the insurance company which threatens to raise my premium although I’m not at fault (“This is how it is in Israel, Mr. Labi.”). I’ll be tough with the pregnant woman whose husband called several times and said that they are poor and for me to go easy on them. (“Did I tell you my wife is not well, and we are going to be a family soon?”)

I come to a stop at a red light. I’m no longer an Israeli-American. This is the “thing.” I’m tough as a “Sabra.” I reach for a roll of toilet paper and blow my nose.

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Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com